The Blackstar Turns Blue - Always Monsters and You

I know it's not about me.

It's not.

David Bowie's death is profound, in general. Man Who Sold the World is one of my favorite songs of all time.

Several weeks ago, I dragged myself from another disappointing surgery consult to the couch of one of the most beloved owners of my heart, a friend who feels like home-the kind of home you'd like to be in when you die. 

The baby doesn't sleep well when we travel, so I hadn't gotten much more than 3 hours a night, for several nights. Finding the time and energy to feed myself had been proving too much that day, and possibly the day before. 

Nevertheless, if there's anything I've learned this year, it is that my time is far more precious than I ever imagined, and should be filled with the ones I have sometimes taken for granted, because they have always loved me, always just been there. They need me, and I have never needed them more.

I tell people things, but not always the truth. "I'm okay" I say. "Things are much better!" I say. "I'm in remission, so that's good." I say. But I don't lie to him. I don't say anything. I didn't have to tell him how tired I was, or how ravaged my spirit feels. That I am lost, and scared, and running on the fumes of a lifelong vitality that always seemed bottomless. 

But it isn't, it isn't. 

He knows me too well, and was gentle, didn't scold or ask too much. Let me ramble, bought me tacos, let the baby tug his beard. I knew he was sad, I felt his concern, he doesn't have to tell me things either. There's nothing I can do. I care in a far-away fashion, like loving through fog. There is just me, and my children. There is my loyal love struggling to cope-I am stronger than him, on the surface, and I am drowning. If I'm no longer the anchor...

But I used to be, I used to be. 

My heart-holder left the house to pick up tacos, and before he left he handed me a tablet, and told me to "watch this" while he was gone. It was a music video. I smiled, trying to remember the last time I focused on an entire video, a complete song, a single sentence uttered by someone else. He left, and I pushed play in surrender because no one has ever gotten me to sit still for this sort of thing.

But him, only him.

Blackstar began to buzz, and Lynchian music poured into the room, and I fell into a trance in the rare quiet moment to myself. I closed my eyes, felt like I was drifting too far away, then opened them and blinked. Bowie's were bandaged, he was dying. I felt that. I knew it. 

Not in real life, in the song. I felt him dying. 

I was sleep deprived, too comfortable, unable to stop my emotional switch from flipping, and I cried softly. Because he was dying. Because I am dying. Because it's all so beautiful and sad. I needed sleep and food, I was sinking into a surreal place....

and then UPS knocked, and the spell was broken.

And not everything is about me.

And my heart-holder came in with tacos, and we chatted, and sipped bourbon, and played with the baby until in my exhausted stupor, I lost my grip while dipping him to the floor, and while he wasn't hurt, he was scared, and cried. I was shocked, so was my companion. Our horrified eyes met and I remember, just for a moment, I remember what almost was.

But it wasn't. It isn't. 

When Bowie died, I felt more than I have in a very long time. More than I did for a friend who tried to leave this world and landed in an eternal sleep instead. More than I felt for Paris, or Sandy Hook, or Amy or Lemmy. I felt sorrow like I had felt from his requiem. I felt the sorrow of my heart-holder from hours away. When he heard the news about Bowie. When he heard the news about me. I knew at that moment, long before it hit the newsfeeds, that I had witnessed Bowie's own, personal farewell to us, that I was put under a spell by a dying man. I knew it was a beautiful thing to do. I want to do it too, for the heart-holders I cherish, all of them.

And I was mournful, sunk. 

David Bowie died of cancer. Not me. 

I lived. I survived. 

But I'm running. My mind is running, I work until I collapse, I talk so I can't listen, I create so I don't stop to observe. I'm running for my life. I'm running because if I stop I have to feel what happened to me, and what happened to my loved ones, and what could happen to my children if it catches me again. I'm running from the look on the face of my troubled partner, my gentle son, and my ever-faithful heart-holder when I woke up in the hospital and they were all around me. Their faces when it catches me again. 

I didn't cry for Bowie because The Man Who Sold the World fills me with longing, or because of the gifts he bestowed. 

It's not about me. 

I lived, I lived. 

But don't forget. 

It caught a god. It can catch me. 

So I run. 

Whose Finger Do You Want On The Trigger?

I know, I know. You are far too young to be worried about this end of life stuff "death people" have been blathering on about. Sure, any of us could get hit by a bus–but then who cares about an advance directive, right? You're part of the asphalt now, pal, it's a done deal.

Many people over 30 aren't stoked on being reminded that they are officially adults. They have climbed to the top of the mountain and it's all downhill from here, and that's just too depressing to think about. 40-year-olds? Don't you even start to EVEN talk about "retirement" and "menopause" and "getting affairs in order". That's for old people. That's for lawyers. You have a hot yoga class to attend, and a marathon to train for.

You're not going anywhere...except you don't know that for sure, do you?

There's a lot of reasons why you're totally wrong, but right now we're going to focus on one, really important reason that you probably haven't thought of, or we wouldn't be having this little talk. Plenty of us are going to die young and stay pretty, regardless of how we live, or what we do. Here's what you need to ask yourself when you are dragging ass and making excuses to avoid this very simple adulting task.

Whose finger to you want on the trigger if you're wrong? 

Think about that. Life is messy sometimes. Families dysfunction, religion can divide, parents can be estranged, marriages fail..or, explode into bitter fiascos driven by a caustic hostility typically reserved for your first childhood bully, or the relentless meter readers of San Francisco. (I HATE THEM SO MUCH)

Times a million.

If your shit isn't dialed and something happens? Someone that you really don't trust could be sitting in the driver's seat, making decisions about your life. Not what you do or where you go, your actual quality of, or continuing of, your LIFE. 

Getting hit by a bus isn't always fatal, and sometimes things you couldn't conceive of happening happen to perfectly healthy, young, vivacious, charming, good-looking people, like getting sick. 

Like me!

I had never felt motivated or overly compelled to get anything down on paper about my death wishes. Even though I'd seen with my own eyes what happens when you don't, even though I had a child, even though I had very specific instructions regarding my grandiose burial wishes. I'd get around to it, I don't need that now...I don't even know exactly what I want yet! 

I will tell you this. The very moment I hung up the phone after being told that my biopsy showed invasive carcinoma at 38, the world zoomed into focus, my doubts and fears shut down, and robot-me started systematically identifying vulnerabilities and fortifying defenses. Even if cancer didn't kill me, I would be helpless for at least a little while. My finances, my children (including the one still occupying my body) and my critical decisions that I may have trouble making will all be in the hands of...

*robot-me scans for next of kin*

Oh for fucksake, no no no no! *scans again* 

Yep. My estranged husband. 

My very angry, vengeful, opportunistic estranged husband. 

Not my parents, not my extremely capable and trusted siblings, not my solid rock of reliability that was my best friend, not my kind, loving partner and father of my (suddenly more fragile) unborn son. 

A short film rolled behind my eyes. I'm in a hospital bed, unresponsive. Something went wrong during surgery, and while I was aware of my surroundings, I couldn't speak or move. My loved ones are staring into the room through a closed door, forbidden to enter. My talented actor of a husband lovingly caressing my hand as he tells the doctors that I would want to be kept alive by any means necessary. He wipes a tear away and as the doctor leaves the room, his features harden and he stares at me, willing me to be in there, knowing. Then he leaves with no intention of ever coming back, and I am left alone in a silent prison.

I know that's a little dark, but hey...it totally could happen. I'm sure it HAS happened. Otherwise, where did all of those soap operas get the idea from?

You know who isn't fucking around? This guy.

That my friends, is what motivation smells like–fear. What will motivate you? Will you have time, like I did, to batten down the hatches? Or will that careless bus driver punt you right into the hands of a narcissistic mother, a father you never really knew, or a flakey sibling who can't even decide on a breakfast cereal?

Mere hours after getting my diagnosis, I was filling out my advance directive, and while it added undeniable weight to the moment, it felt more safe than final. If anything happened, those I trusted the most would be on point and in place.  There was less mystery, and a huge "unknown" removed from the equation. It didn't really add to the feeling of death breath on my neck, but it did help me process the practical information that yes, I actually could absolutely die. Possibly in the fairly near future. 

Luckily I didn't, and probably won't for a long time. Knowing that the advance directive is there still makes me feel protected, and gives me a sense of being prepared. One big life chore checked off of the list. It's alleviated fear and has given me back some control of what will happen to me should I ever find myself vulnerable like that again.

Fucking around time is over. It's business time. Don't know where to start? Don't worry, we got you, bro.

You can start RIGHT NOW. 

Posy-Filled Pockets will be holding workshops throughout the year that will provide a group setting where you can ask questions, discuss options, and fill out your paperwork with support and guidance. They will be announced on our Happenings page here on the blog, and on our facebook page. 

Watch the blog for information on the different advance directive options, degrees of detail different versions address, and more personal horror stories to emotionally strong-arm you into action.  

Posy-Filled Pockets Was Meant To Be...And It Was Meant To Be Here

This is my version of the story of how PFP came to be, and why Nevada County is the perfect place for us to build this community.

Last year, I brought Odd Salon, the SF cocktail lecture series that I co-founded along with two partners, to my weird little hometown. Once the boomingest boomtown, Grass Valley is now an adorable tourist trap in the Gold Country, a refuge for musicians, artists and eccentrics, and my favorite and least favorite place on earth. I don't really know why, I just had a feeling...this would be the perfect place.

 My partners thought I was nuts, but I convinced them that a pop-up would be risk-free. Worst case scenario, I would personally eat the loss. I batted my eyes and stomped my feet and lay down on the carpet illustrating how I would probably die if they said no. They agreed to humor me.

That's me, standing in front of more high school boyfriends than I care to admit.

Our SF audience had been "warmed up" to "learning something weird" by previous events, and I wanted to see how it would go over with a completely cold, uninitiated audience. Does Nevada County want to drink and listen to us tell them bizarre stories? Is the flyer and Facebook invite going to be enough to pique interest in a history lecture at a bar? Is there a place for our style of educational absurdity everywhere, or was it a regional attraction?

I wanted a testing ground. Since I knew I could guilt enough of my friends to attend to at least break even, I thought it would be the perfect place to experiment.

We packed up and headed to the foothills with a combination of local and ringer SF speakers. After two weeks of promotion, we brought GOLD, MURDER, & SPIRITS to the Holbrooke Hotel...

...and we sold out.

The venue loved us and invited us back anytime. The audience was pleased, and I was rewarded for my leap of faith by enthusiastic insistence that we do it again and again. While it didn't seem feasible at the time, it was obvious that Nevada County would be a fantastic place to create a salon-inspired community project like ours.

Sean Sanford extrapolating on Black Bart's softer side

Maybe someday.

One particularly meaningful accolade came from my friend Len. Len's opinion was very important to me. He was a very serious, quiet man who didn't drink or smoke, and always had valuable practical advice, pulled no punches, and inspired the people he cared about to be their best, even if what he had to say could sting a little in the dignity department.

He told me how impressed he was–he hadn't known what to expect, but he hadn't imagined a drinking-related night of intelligent discourse. (even though he could have done without the foul language)  He explained how hard it was for someone like him to meet other people. Shy, sober, unable to engage in small talk or mindless chatter, this type of event could change his entire view on developing a social life. He said we really had something very special.

"Glowing" isn't usually a thing I am, but I know I was.

Fast forward several months later. I am giving my first Death Salon lecture on suicide, a topic very significant to me for many reasons that I'm sure will be touched upon as this project forges ahead. I was a little nervous, but I knew my subject well.

Transcending the East vs. West Suicide Paradox: Netting the Bridge and Walling up the Volcano 
"By comparing Mount Mihara and the Golden Gate Bridge, we’ll look at the conflicting ideologies surrounding suicide in Asia and the US, using these popular suicide locations and their prevention solutions in each locale as focal points to examine not only the opposing cultural attitudes, but how they are evolving from opposite sides of the philosophy spectrum and beginning to “meet in the middle” with concern and compassion."

I did okay. Not my best, not my worst. I would have been much more prepared had I not been so distracted. I was relieved when my talk was over, and now my heart was pounding in anticipation for a fellow speaker's topic that I had previously glanced over with only a casual interest.

Today, Beza Merid had my full attention as he gave his death-related talk on the same podium I had just vacated. What he had to say was vitally important for me to hear now, because it was about the only thing I'd been able to think about since my OBGYN had called two days previous, leaving a kindly short voicemail with my biopsy results. Beza's talk was called Stand-up Comedy and the Popular Culture of Cancer.

It is the only talk I remember hearing that day, everything else was static. My bilateral mastectomy would take place a few weeks later, as soon as my pregnancy was in it's second trimester.

It was a very long year.

I don't really want to talk about that right now.

While I was recovering, we received a call telling us that our sincere, earnest, wonderful friend Len was dead. He had taken his own life, no one knew exactly why. I still have the voicemail he left me, telling me that I had something special, and I had a duty to share it with others. I listen to it when I don't think that's true.

Whew! That was getting awkwardly heavy. Let's move on.

Fast forward several months.

I am in full remission, and have a beautiful baby boy that is perfect in every way. I have moved home to Grass Valley to be closer to my family, and slow down the breakneck pace of my life as it was in the city. I am peaceful and grateful, but I am...disappointed. I loved what I was doing. I loved my work, and I loved Odd Salon. Cancer stole a lot of things from me that I could live with, but my career, just as it was exceeding my own expectations? What the cock was that? I had worked harder than I ever had, given up so much...and it was paying off! It was crushing, to be honest.

It remained too awkward and painful to be said out loud. I will always be a founder, and my voice and my mark can still be seen woven into the patterns of the voices of my partners. We all pretended like I would have this triumphant return, but I knew, and I assumed they knew as well, that I could never come back.

I was three hours away, had a newborn, and I was still very tired, and very affected. The salons had matured and improved in the year I was gone, and I had changed. I had spent years writing articles and telling knee-slapping stories about death and dying, but my interests had shifted, and mortality had stopped being a "story". My last talk with Odd Salon was dark. A lot darker than I intended. People stopped seeing me as vitality incarnate.

They started seeing me as someone death had brushed by.

I had never once considered that death would come around to heckle me just as I was warming up, using it as fodder. Was this some sort of cosmic joke? HAHAHAHA. Good one, universe.

I was lost and unsure of where to go with my career. I still wrote for the same places I had always written for, but I missed working with other people, curating topics and interacting and sharing ideas somewhere other than spreadsheets.

I had more insight into the topic of death now, too. My perspective had shifted, I was no longer gazing in through safety glass, I was all up in it, advanced directive and all. Where were my death homies? Where were my people?

One day I opened up my Facebook to an invite to a local Death Cafe. I had attended one in the area a year previous, and was impressed with the turnout. Even though Death Cafe tends to operate with more brevity than I'm always comfortable with, they were still my people, so off I went. That's where I met Mr. Tim Lilyquist, the mortician in charge of the event's venue, Chapel of the Angels Mortuary.

I just steal these photos off of Tim's Facebook. I don't even ask. He seems fine with it.

So the rest goes something like this.

"Blah blah I think death is rad."

"Yadda Yadda, so do I"

"I'm pondering setting up a 'thing' here, kind of like a salon, but with some more variety, to appeal to a few different aspects. Like the industry! But I don't know much about the industry."

"That would be so bitchin'. Hey...I know all about the industry, and I have opinions and stuff too..."

"GET. OUT. OF TOWN. We should totally do a thing. We're doing a thing."

So, here's our thing. The other things and their influences will be apparent, but it will be it's own unique thing. Because the thing I do now, is much different from the thing I did then, in the "before" times.

I hope that Len was right, and this is something people want, maybe even need. I hope Tim can tolerate me. I hope you will want to be a part of it with us, because it's gonna be so extremely, ragingly bad ass.

Len said so. He wouldn't have referred to it in such foul language, but I know that's what he meant.

Len's memorial garden. The skull says "Godspeed Len" in fancy silver paint pen. As it should be.

Fuki Cafe Interviews Rachel James on Advance Directives

Rachel discusses the Death Movement, the importance of an advanced directive, and the dimensions that facing off with her own mortality added to her work.

Fuki Cafe is a web TV show with a mix of climate chaos, near term human extinction, methane release, death, and "just for beauty" art videos.